Lead and Follow(51)
Chapter Seventeen
Lizzie stood beside Mr. George at the entrance to Club Devant. He smoked a cigar and nodded on occasion to the notable faces who slipped through the velvet ropes without hesitation. Other curious guests and ticketholders waited for Mr. George to feel like doing a little work. Lizzie could’ve gone in right away, but she lingered while calling herself all manner of chickenshit.
More than a week had passed since their weekend and since Dima had left the diner without eating. As a featured headliner, he wouldn’t be performing on a Tuesday night, but she knew he’d be there. They couldn’t share an apartment and not know one another’s comings and goings. Having for the most part avoided her since walking out of that disastrous breakfast, he would be inside somewhere. Talking with the other dancers. Mingling with patrons, even though he hated it. Practicing with women who weren’t Lizzie.
Although she would’ve liked to avoid him right back, she hadn’t seen Paul either. She missed them both. Negotiating the currents of their threesome had meant a living-on-the-edge weekend. Now she had none of it. No danger, companionship, fun. It highlighted all the more exactly how limited her world had become since her injury.
Back on the circuit, her mind kept saying. All this unsettled crap would fit back into the right shape. She’d have her friends back, her partner, her life.
Yet…where had those friends been when she was in a hospital room, so doped up on painkillers that she’d sung along to a block of ’80s vids on VH1? Where had they been when Dima was, apparently, fending off a stringy Russian witch who scoped for dance partners in the ER waiting room? Where were they when endless questions spun her brain like a top?
Nope. Nada. After more than a decade as a touring professional, she had left the circuit with exactly zero by way of non-Dima-shaped friends.
“He turned her down,” she said absently to Mr. George. So much a fixture of Club Devant, talking to him was like talking to the massive red-and-gold neon sign. She could never tell if Declan had designed the place ironically, or if his odd Irish sense of style decided this was how an upscale sex revue should look.
Mr. George only nodded. “Course he would.”
Lizzie glanced at him sharply. Surely he didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. She barely did. “I mean, who would do that? Turn down an opportunity like that?”
He shrugged. “Not me. Which means you’re talking to the wrong guy. In or out, Miss Lizzie. Unless you like nosy bitches shooting eye daggers at you. Yeah, I’m talking about you, you skinny tramp. Get back in line.”
Although she had no idea who the woman was, Lizzie waved toodles with her fingertips and headed inside with her decision made. She would at least see Paul. If Dima happened to be there…well, maybe it was time they talked. So far, not talking had been a disaster.
Tuesday night was relatively quiet, despite the people Mr. George made stand on line outside. “Relatively quiet” meant she could see Paul. The swarm around the bar was a little less densely packed. He wore his cowboy hat and a white wife-beater T-shirt, making plain ol’ cotton look obscene. Big smile for everyone—even the men, she noticed. That made her smile too. No matter what this experience meant for her and Dima, she hoped it had opened doors for Paul. Maybe he would simply have more…options.
She wiggled through the crowd and behind the bar. Standing behind Paul on tippy-toes, she grabbed his cowboy hat and shoved it on her own head. Without missing a beat with his cocktail shaker, he glanced over his shoulder with a grin that said he knew who he’d find.
“Hey, gorgeous. You here to help me with the dishes? I’m behind.”
“Me? Dishes?” She giggled and started loading a batch of glasses into a huge plastic tray. Already she anticipated watching him lift the heavy thing and haul it back to the kitchen.
“Been a while,” he said conversationally.
“Yup. Sorry.”
“Any news?”
“News?”
He shot her a don’t be dumb look and took a twenty from a well-endowed brunette. She waved off the change.
Lizzie laughed behind her hand. “You must make some hellacious tips.”
Licking his lower lip, he ignored the next round of orders and cornered Lizzie against the counter. “That I do.”
“Arrogant ass.”
“Don’t say that word. I’ll get grabby.”
“I wouldn’t call the cops on you. Pinkie swear.”
“Hey, Lyle, you got this for a second?”
The other barman waved with a towel and returned to handing a redhead three glasses of white wine. She hardly looked steady enough to manage.